


2018 Writing Challenges

by Pie (potteresque_ire)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M, Short, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-03-25 04:07:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13826148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteresque_ire/pseuds/Pie
Summary: Miscellaneous short stories and excerpts created for writing challenges. Chapter titles denote the topic of the writing challenge. Harry/Draco is the main pairing for most pieces.





	1. Sentence Length

**Author's Note:**

> Writing challenges are offered on the Discord server for Drarry Writers and Artists. Many thanks to aibidil and magpie_fngrl for putting the challenges together! Lessons are based on Ursula Le Guin's _Steering the Craft: A Twenty-First-Century Guide to Sailing the Sea of Story_ , and various other sources.

**_Exercise One: Write a half page to a page of narrative, up to 350 words, that is all one sentence._ **

 

**_1\. Harry/Draco_ **

Draco studies it for a moment, like he was formulating a plan, a battle scheme on how to approach it, how to attack it.

Then, with his stills eyes locked on Harry’s, he bows his head.

He gives it a lick.

It’s lightning, a flash of fire and heat emitting from where Draco’s tongue met Harry’s nipple, electrifying every muscle, every cell in Harry’s body; it’s lust, and Harry lets out a gasp, a wordless plea for _more_ that he’d be embarrassed to ask for any other time but not now; not with what  Draco is offering him with that tongue, not with Draco so eager and determined to respond to his every wish as he sucks on Harry’s throat and leaves bite marks on Harry’s neck, as he returns to lave on Harry’s nipples and then slick his whole chest with saliva; as he maps every inch of Harry’s skin, claims with his teeth every sensitive spot Harry never knew he has , spots that only fans Harry’s fire that is burning wilder and wilder by the second but is still, still not enough, that can’t possibly be enough until… Harry arches; he doesn’t know, does care until when; he just wants; he just wants everything _fast_ and _now_ and he would kill Draco, would kill anyone if Draco can’t deliver it to him, if Draco leaves him cold now as pleasure is so close… too close … he pushes his fingers into Draco’s hair and Draco chokes at his throat, looks up with murderous eyes and wet lips that spit out _your legs_ like they’re the most despicable things in his way that Draco then shoves apart before resuming his assault on Harry’s abdomen, like he can’t feel Harry’s cock drawing wet circles on his chin or sense Harry’s hips buckling so hard that two hands can’t pin them down or hear Harry’s groans being loud enough to draw attention from not only everyone in the Slytherin common room below but from every creature in the Black Lake that Harry’s sure, Harry’s absolutely sure haven’t seen Draco like this either, flushed from head to toe and dark as night in the blown pupils and grinding himself so hard, so fast on the mattress that the springs are moaning and groaning their surrender before he can’t stand it anymore, opens his mouth and —

—“Oh” Harry shouts, climaxing just in time for the moment Draco has Harry’s cock in his mouth.

 

**_2. ** _Harry/Draco_** (Failed attempt, 2nd paragraph)_ **

“I do.”

The nervous whisper was so uncharacteristic of Harry, but it was the same whisper, the same breathless, heart-at-the throat, life-on-the-ropes whisper Draco had used to propose that night on the highlands, while a stream of blood from beneath Draco’s palm branded Draco with the most violent, and yet, the most brilliant and vivid shade of red; while the fading beats of a heart so close to Draco’s deafened the air so much, made it so thin that Draco’s lungs struggled to breathe; while the golden stripes of a severed Auror’s coat left shreds in Draco’s grasp as Draco sought purchase with his fingers, sought for that one chance, that one fickle moment in time when the Fates were careless in their watch, to tether back onto this Earth this one soul willing to safeguard Draco’s own — the walking cautionary tale, the wretched thing perennially wrapped by a hanging rope that’d been weaved by history and guilt…

“Draco, do you?” The whisper returned, this time quelling Draco’s thoughts. Harry was looking at him, for the promise Draco had neglected to offer on cue. He appeared, to every one else, every bit the Head Auror in the impeccable robe he was wearing for the occasion, every inch the man with a pedestal at the pinnacle of the world since he’d been 17. But at this moment, the face within an arm’s reach to Draco was flushed in the most vivid shade of pink, above a chest heaving with what had to be the wildest, liveliest of heartbeats. Harry looked so wide-eyed, so confused, so full of nerves that…

Draco smiled and let the sun, the morning air and <i>life</i> filled every molecule of him. His heart sang; his lungs joined in the chorus and his soul freed itself in their song. The rope around him all these years dissipated as Draco nodded an apology to the officiate, then looked into the eyes of his husband-to-be and replied, simply,

“I do.”

****

* * *

 

 

**_Exercise Two: Write a paragraph of narrative, 100–150 words, in sentences of seven or fewer words. No sentence fragments!* Each must have a subject and a verb._ **

 

**_1\. Yuuri Katsuki_ **

He picked up speed. Winds swept over his face, his hair. The seats in the stadium blurred. His mind chanted the ticker for takeoff. Three. Two. His stride was right. His speed was controlled. He leaned forward, dug his toe down.

Impact. It launched him upward. He sprung himself high, against gravity. He twisted. His arms folded in. His faith in physics tallied: one, two ...  His arms extended on cue. He slowed. He caught sight of the championship banners. He caught sight of his mind adrift. He re-focused.

_Thud_. The landing was too loud, too wobbly. But he landed. He slid backward, imagined a cheer. "Quadruple flip!!" He looked up. He waved and smiled.

The empty chairs, the tattered banners stared back. They were ignorant of his fantasy.

He picked up speed. Again.

 

 


	2. Repetitions

**_Part One: Verbal Repetition. Write a paragraph of narrative (150 words) that includes at least three repetitions of a noun, verb, or adjective (a noticeable word, not an invisible one like was, said, did)._ **

 

**1\. Drarry ("said" was used as the repeated word, in a rebellious streak)**

He said he wasn’t sick. He said he wasn’t a freak, wasn’t a pervert. He said he was a Malfoy, one of the sacred twenty-eight. He said only Muggles harbor such filthy fetishes, breed such dubious traits.  

And half-bloods. Don’t forget the half-bloods.

He said he dreamt of the supple softness of Astoria’s breasts in his palms. He said he fantasized about the petals between her legs, the wet, sacred canal soon to be the passage to this world for his heir. He said he envisioned sucking, flicking the prized nub with his lips until she’d shout his name and come.

And he’d come, too, out of sheer lust for the feminine form. Don’t anyone dare to forget that.

He said every wizard who claimed a history of courtship with Draco Malfoy was a liar. He said every man who recalled having been pursued by Draco Malfoy was a fraud. He said every male who disillusioned himself to be Draco Malfoy’s bedfellow, no matter in the past, present, or future, should be locked up in the Janus Thickery ward.

He said what he’d said as he lost rhythm and began to thrust. He said what he’d said as he pulled out, his half-flaccid cock and a thick, gelling string of come. He said, as his kiss drew blood from Harry’s mouth, as his tears slid across Harry’s cheeks, that all of this was nothing, that he felt nothing and if Harry thought this had meant anything more than nothing, then, he said, and he said again, that Harry was even more daft, more hopeless than he thought.

He wasn’t sick, Draco Malfoy said again as he wept in Harry’s arms. He wasn’t a freak, wasn’t a pervert...

 

* * *

 

 

**_Part Two: Structural Repetition. Write a short narrative (350–1000 words) in which something is said or done and then something is said or done that echoes or repeats it, perhaps in a different context, or by different people, or on a different scale. This can be a complete story, if you like, or a fragment of narrative._ **

 

****1** **. Drarry** **

They all say Draco Malfoy is the water among them. Harry thinks he’s the fire.

Draco sets the amphitheater alight the moment he sets foot in it, like he owns the place, like he isn’t just another public defender in a humble black robe. His bow to the Wizengamot is low and polite—exceedingly so—before he glances upwards and flashes the two searing daggers in his eyes.

Like fire, Draco is only approachable, acceptable, when he’s contained. This amphitheater is Wizarding Britain’s containment of choice. Inside, Draco’s incendiary tongue carelessly licks doubt onto the juror’s minds; the staccato of his drawl ruthlessly sows embers of skepticism on the pile of evidence painstakingly gathered over months if not years, embers that soon combust and leave no more than the ashen faces of the Auror team behind. Interns—future prosecutors and defenders alike—flock to watch him, their quills flying to the lesson of how to verbally cremate an opposition alive; witches, too, come in droves, their face flushed and perspiring every time those silver eyes throws a heated glance their way.

Outside, Draco is reduced to embers himself. Once the din, the fanfare of his latest victory burns out, his incendiary tongue is once again a menace, a fuel for, if not a promise of, impending calamity. _What if he defends whom he defends not only inside, but also outside?_ His drawl, reminiscent of his bloodline, his upbringing, is once again a sin. _He was one of them before, wasn’t he?_ Outside, Draco’s expensive robe is hooded to conceal the glint in his hair; he walks with his head bowed to hide the silver fire in his eyes; he tallies his steps, the crackle of twigs under his feet, as he struggles to find his foothold in a world that wants no part of him…

People are taught to fear, to stay away from a blaze, magnificent and beautiful as it may be. Fire is a good servant but a bad master, they say. _You’ll get burnt_ , Hermione has said, too, many times, and Harry knows it is true. Even Draco has said the same thing, as they lie together in that attic inn in Knockturn Alley, on the same bed where they always find each other after dark, after every trial. “Don’t fall in love with me. I don’t know how to love you back.”

Harry understands. A flame doesn’t know how to lick without burning, without charring the flesh it intends to hold. He closes his eyes and impales himself on Draco’s cock. He thinks of a phoenix. He thinks of a stake.

~

They all say Harry Potter is the fire among them. Draco thinks he’s the water.

Harry never makes an entrance in the amphitheater. He trickles in, from an obscure corner of the bandshell and onto his seat, his motion as quiet, as fluid as expected from a seasoned Auror.

Like water, Harry is deemed essential, but forgettable, when contained. Inside the amphitheater, he is still—stagnant—and his testimony is terse. _Yes. No._ Only the most attentive of those in audience notices the water drops in these replies, the _Drip. Drip._ whittling away the most rock solid of defences; only the most discerning senses the vast pool of irradiance reflecting the speaker’s diminutive presence—the vast pool that is history, that is Light, that blinds the Wizengamot from seeing for themselves the truth and its many possible distributaries. The rest doesn’t spare a rivulet of thought for Harry Potter until the containment is gone. Until Harry is outside. Until Harry is larger than life.

Outside, Harry is the ocean. He is always on the move. Every news outlet is inundated with reports of these movements, real and imagined, and speculations on the _how’s_ and _why’s_ of these movements because oceans, these outlets insist, never talked and never will. _He’s set to flush out every single Dark Wizard in existence_ , they chant in his name. _Look! A new scar! He’s seeped through the fingers of Death again!_ they cry for him. Outside, they all think they know Harry, like a child who thinks he knows the ocean by treading just far out enough on a beach to let a wave wash over his feet, or catch a faint reflection of himself in the ripples, and deciding, once and for all, that he and the ocean are one and the same. The din, the fanfare drowns the sighs from the magnificence in front of them, sighs that echo weariness and aimlessness that they, despite claiming to want every part of the magnificence, never care to listen…

People are taught to fall for the seas, to love them for the light they inherit from the heavens, their calmness under the sun; for their selflessness, existing for those who can appreciate their magnificence and beauty from afar, from safety. _He’ll engulf you_ , Pansy has countered, more than once, and Draco knows it is true. Even Harry has confessed the same thing, as they lie together in that attic inn in Knockturn Alley, on the same bed where they always find each other after dark, after every trial. “I don’t know how to not love you.”

Draco understands. Water doesn’t know how to hold without submerging, without consuming the flesh it seeks to embrace. He bites his lips and thrusts upward to meet the heat, the wetness of Harry swallowing his length. He thinks of Hans Christian Andersen’s little mermaid. He thinks of a dunking crane.

 


	3. Adjectives & Adverbs

**_Write a paragraph to a page (200–350 words) of descriptive narrative prose without adjectives or adverbs. No dialogue._ **

 

**1\. Drarry**

_Relearn your adjectives, Mr Malfoy, if need be. Recognize the Enemy of Light. Remember to disown it._

The Wizengamot didn’t say _Enemy of Light_ when they let Draco go. They said an adjective, but since Draco was to relearn his adjectives, Draco would not mention the adjective. Not that one. Not one.

Not in his speech. Not in his thoughts. He would forget his adjectives. He would unlearn to relearn.

Draco returned to the manor. It was … his mind supplied words, a list of them. Draco Banished some, Evanescoed the rest. He asked for nouns. He demanded verbs. His mind returned nothing.

Nothing.

It _was_ nothing, the manor. Draco looked. He listened. Mud had swallowed the hedges. Bones had buried the peacocks. Ruins had replaced his home.

Nothing.

Came sunrise. Draco wandered among the hills. He tried to describe the things he encountered. He came up with nothing. Nothing. The flowers were nothing without his mother’s praise. The Stonehenge was nothing without history on his surname’s side. The landscape’s rise and fall were nothing when he’d lost his footing in the world.

Came sunset. Draco sought refuge in the downs. Night was the Enemy of Light, so Draco disowned the stars. He cleansed, camouflaged himself with chalk and dust. He closed his eyes and dreamt of nothing. Nothing.

Moons took turns to watch and judge, as Draco came to thinking in nothings, to embodying nothings. He was nothing on Diagon Alley, where his name meant nothing, where his OWLs, his qualifications counted for nothing, where his Galleons could buy nothing from shops that sold him nothing. The sleeve on his forearm hid nothing. Passer-bys turned to him, turned on him and spat on nothing.

Nothing was good, Draco thought. Tears had no place where feelings were nothing, where they meant nothing and owned, ruled over nothing. No one.

Nothing was good, Draco thought, until those eyes brightened at the sight of him behind the glass at Fortescue’s, until those lips curved in recognition, and that hand waved at him to join in. Those eyes, those lips, and that hand that--Draco’s mind churned and sputtered from disuse—were _something_. He found his way to it, claimed his place in the sun. As he spooned ice-cream into his mouth, as he returned the smile and gaze and stoked its warmth, its heat, something morphed into everything, the Enemy of Light stowed its shadows, and adjectives, a lifetime of them, danced their rebirth to the bursts of sweetness on his tongue.

Enticing, divine, happy, joyful, elated, jubilant, vivacious, lively, enchanting, blissful … solid and green and messy and so, so, delicious.

 


	4. POV & Tenses

**1a. Original character, Drarry referenced**

**2nd Person POV, Future Tense**

 

You'll be convinced, absolutely convinced that this reincarnation of Draco and Harry, the one you'll have so painstakingly brought to life , will be the sexiest ever, that their passionate adventures in bed will re-define smut and raise the bar for Explicit rating for generations to come. You'll realize, twelve hours after posting on Tumblr, on AO3,  that this reincarnation of Draco will be better remembered as having four legs, and Harry, as having a cock on his forehead.

Your screen pointer will hover above the "Delete" button for the next three days. You'll toss and turn at night, wondering why you'll have bothered to write at all. You'll try to withdraw to RL, to the tedium of course work and stale coffee, until you won't be able to take another minute. You'll seek solace among your fandom friends. You'll find it.

The old timers, the writers who you'll have had looked up to for years, will tell you the mistakes they'll have made. They'll laugh at themselves, lots of :rofl:  icons dotting your screen and you'll stare, open mouthed, before, finally, responding with an :open_mouth: icon too. You won't be able to believe it. "Don't quit," they will tell you. "We've all been there."

You'll decide to keep the fic. Heck, you'll decide to tag it too, and you'll wonder if it should be a warning or a kink. You'll type "Four Legged Draco" in AO3's box, and it will come up blank. You'll insist. You'll delete every alternative it'll offer. You'll do the same with "Forehead cocked Harry".

Comments and asks will trickle in, mostly good natured, but some of ridicule.  "It's a joke," you'll reply at first, but then it'll bother you. No, not the comments and asks, but that you'll have lied to yourself. You'll have pretended that the fic will never matter to you, when it'll have; when you'll have put in time and effort, when you'll have laid yourself open, that secret dream to be a writer, someday.

You'll stare at the fic again one night when you'll feel low. Your screen pointer will again hover above the "Delete" button. Your phone will chime, and you'll read it, a two-sentence review on the fic, of how the reader will look forward to the next chapter. "I've got a new kink," she'll say.

You'll smile. Then you'll laugh. You'll respond "Thank you <3" to the commenter. You'll wish she'll know how much those few words will mean to you. You'll read your fic again, and you'll decide that that fic will become you.

You'll make the kink real. You'll pour over Plato's Symposium, read up on Eros and the four legged creature that used to be man until Zeus got jealous and cut him in half. You'll research every ancient culture, every religion in search of a deity with a cock on his forehead. You'll take an anthropology course in your Uni, and fall in love with it too. You'll build a universe around your mistake and your new found knowledge, immerse in it so much that when the Harry Potter films show on TV again, it'll take you a moment to remember Draco Malfoy only has four limbs, and Harry's forehead, even with the scar, is a rather smooth thing.

You'll write it all up, a multi-chaptered, 500k+ word epic. You'll have your jittery moments while doing so, but your fandom friends will be there for you. They'll beta it, read it, post on Tumblr about it. "Ever wonder?" they'll ask their followers. "Ever wonder how it's like to read something you've never imagined before?"

And people will wonder. This time, the comments and asks will pour in. There’ll be properly worded ones. There’ll be keyboard smashes and gifs that will leave you scratching your head, grinning, not knowing how to answer. There’ll be long ones that will take two comment boxes to complete, short ones in which the reader will forget her etiquette and say nothing but "Update", or dictate what should happen next. You won't be sure whether to take those as compliments, but you'll leave "Thank you" too, because you'll mean it, because you'll still remember what it's like to wait nervously for reactions -- any reaction -- to what you've put out there for people to see. Requests will appear-- for permission to do art for your universe, to translate, to remix, and the tone of some of the requests will be so polite, so full of reverence, that you'll blush just reading them.

"Four Legged Draco"  will become a suggested term on AO3.  So will "Forehead cocked Harry". Kinkfests will feature them. Tumblr will have its first war over whether these are acceptable kinks and you'll feel like Disapparating. Hate will come with love, and you'll get used to it too, the occasional flame, the acid-sour tags on AO3's bookmarks page. But you'll make peace with them, because you'll have spent years in this fandom by now and you'll have so many more friends than enemies, because you'll be busy writing, translating your imagination into words, drafting outlines that will also serve as bookmarks for that anthropology tome you'll have to crack for your PhD qualifiers. You'll remain logged in in the Drarry chatroom though, because it'll be your second home.

And that'll be where you'll get to know her, she with a name you won't recognize. "im new," she'll type in all small fonts and no punctuations. "im sorry but Im sad and need to vent". You'll tell her you'll get some tea, and you'll make yourself comfortable with your laptop. "i dunno where to start," she'll say, "but I wrote my first Drarry and thought my boys were sexy." You'll put down your cup. Your fingers will hover on the keyboard, driven by memories you haven't visited for a long while. But you'll rein them in, from typing, from talking. You'll listen. "i posted the fic everywhere last night and just reread it and its shit smuts like two giant squids having sex." She'll add a :cry: icon, and you'll wait, wait until she'll have let it all out. "i probably scare away the 2 readers i have maybe i should delete it delete my acct everything"

The screen will stop scrolling. But you'll feel such despair, such heartbreak seeping from it that you'll squint, only to find a faint reflection of yourself. You'll start typing then, and you'll start telling the story of a newbie who was convinced, absolutely convinced that her reincarnation of Draco and Harry would be the sexiest ever, only to find out later that her Draco in action got four legs and her Harry, a cock on his forehead. You'll add a :rofl: icon... many of them, because you'll be the only one in the chat with her. You'll finish with "We've all been there. Don't give up writing."

There will be silence from the other end, followed by minutes of "...." beside her username while she’ll type and erase and type and erase… until a simple :open_mouth: icon will appear as her answer.

And you'll let out a breath. You'll take a sip of tea, and smile.

 

 

* * *

 

**1b. Rewrite of 1a**

**1st Person POV, Past Tense**

 

I was so sure my Drarry was the sexiest ever, that their bedroom antics would re-define smut and raise the bar for Explicit rating. Twelve hours later, I realized my Draco would be better known for having four legs, and my Harry, for having a cock on his forehead.

I thought of deleting the fic for the next three days. I lost sleep and wondered why I’d bothered to write at all. I even tried RL for escape, drowned myself in homework and stale coffee until I couldn’t take it anymore. I turned to my fandom friends for a shoulder to cry on. 

The old timers, the writers I’d fangirled for years, they told me the mistakes they had made. They laughed at themselves—:rofl: icons were rolling everywhere--and I just stared, open-mouthed, at the screen. I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t think of anything to say but an :open_mouth: icon. They told me not to quit. “We’ve all been there,” they said.

I kept the fic. I even tagged it, as a warning, maybe? A kink? I typed "Four Legged Draco" in AO3's tag box. Nothing came up. I deleted the alternatives it gave me. I did the same for "Forehead cocked Harry".

I started to get a few comments, an ask or two. Most were nice, but the others, not so much. To those I said the fic was a joke at first, but that began to bother me. No, not the comments or asks, but that I was talking like the fic didn’t matter. It did. I’d put in time and effort. I’d put myself out there on the internet, my secret dream of becoming a writer. 

A bad day was all it took for me to be back at where I’d been, staring at the fic and my fingers hovering above the “Delete” button. My phone chimed, and I read a new two-sentence review of the fic. The reader was looking forward to the next chapter. She’d got a new kink, she said.

I smiled. Then I laughed. "Thank you <3" I typed and I wished she would know how much those  words really meant to me. I read the fic again.

I decided this fic would become me.

I would make the kink real. I poured over Plato's Symposium, read up on Eros and the four legged creature that used to be man, until Zeus got jealous and cut him in half. I researched ancient cultures and religions for a deity with a cock on his forehead, ended up taking an anthropology course in Uni. I loved it. I built a fic universe around the mistakes I’d made and what I had learned, and I got so into it that when ABC Family showed the HP movies again, it took me a moment to remember Draco Malfoy only had four limbs, and Harry's forehead was rather smooth, even with a scar.

I  wrote it up, a multi-chaptered, 500k+ word epic. I got jittery at times, but that’s what fandom friends were for. They beta-ed it, read it, post on Tumblr about it. "Ever wonder?" they asked their followers. "Ever wonder how it's like to read something you've never imagined before?"

And people wondered. Comments and asks came pouring in this time. I got properly worded ones. I got keyboard smashes and gifs, and I scratched my head and grinned. What was I  supposed to say to them? I got long ones that took two comment boxes to complete; I got short ones where the reader forgot her etiquette and only wrote "Update", or what should happen next. Maybe these were not compliments, but I said "Thank you" anyway. I meant it. I still remembered what it's like to wait nervously for reactions--any reaction-- to what I’d put out there. I started to get requests-- for permission to do art for the universe, to translate, remix. Their tone was so polite, so full of reverence sometimes that it turned me into a tomato.

"Four Legged Draco" became a suggested term on AO3.  "Forehead cocked Harry" too. I found them in Kinkfests, and when Tumblr had its first war over whether they’re acceptable kinks, I wanted to Disapparate. I got some hate--fair enough, for all the love I’d got. A flame every now and then. The sour tags on AO3's bookmarks page. But it was okay. I was okay. I’d been in fandom for years now and I’d found many more friends than enemies. Plus I was busy writing, imagining, using my outlines to bookmark that anthropology tome I was cracking for my quals. I always logged into the Drarry chatroom though. That’s my second home.

And that's where I got to know her. I didn’t recognize her name then. "im new," she typed. All small fonts. No punctuations. "im sorry but Im sad and need to vent". I told her I’d get some tea, and made myself comfortable. She said she didn’t know where to start, but she wrote her first Drarry and she thought her boys were so sexy, until... I put down my cup. Old memories came to me and my hands were on the keyboard. I stopped. I didn’t want to type or talk. I wanted to listen. "i posted the fic everywhere last night and just reread it and its shit smuts like two giant squids having sex." She said, added a :cry: icon, and I waited until she was done. "i probably scare away the 2 readers i have maybe i should delete it delete my acct everything".

The screen stopped scrolling. But I felt such despair and heartbreak from it still that I squinted, and saw nothing but myself. My faint reflection. I started to type, to tell the story of a newbie who was convinced, absolutely convinced that her Drarry would be the sexiest ever, only to find out her Draco in bed had four legs and her Harry had a cock on his forehead. I added a :rofl: icon... many of them, as I was the only one in the chat with her. I finished with "We've all been there. Don't give up writing."

I didn’t hear back from a long while. "...." appeared beside her username, and it went for minutes as she typed and erased, typed and erased… until one :open_mouth: icon appeared as her answer.

I let out a breath, took a sip of tea, and smiled. 

 


	5. Famous Writing Styles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A 100-word drabble based on [ this Tumblr post](http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/post/161448906817/porcupine-girl-thelobsterqueen), written in Ernest Hemingway's style with a side of Lewis Carroll's math metaphor.

**A 100-word drabble based on Ernest Hemingway's "prompt" ( _100 word challenge, yes the title is included in the word count, fight me, angst, sad, baby shoes_ ) in [this Tumblr post](http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/post/161448906817/porcupine-girl-thelobsterqueen), with a side of Lewis Carroll's love for math metaphors. **

 

**Circles**

Draco’s toes arch in half-circles. His mouth opens as one.

Two glass circles used to greet him. Harry wore his glasses when they came.

Three gold circles greet him now. Clients pay if and after they come.

_Extra Galleons for Potter’s old fuck toy._

 

π defines circles. Symbols quash infinities, are easy to use and discard. Harry defines heroes. Draco defines souls and bodies for sale.

Circles are closed, Draco said. His got no openings for Harry, he lied.

Circles are strong. Time wears away their sharp corners, so Draco smiles at his next bedfellow. He spreads his thighs.


End file.
